


bee's wing

by parareve



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: + tamaki's smittenness, F/M, Post-Series, Set in Boston, a little fic full of fluff, and how she is Very Much Okay with that, and the daily insanities it brings, budding confidence, cuddling occurs after, established relationships - Freeform, featuring:, gratuitous descriptions of how much haruhi is in love with this idiot, hintings at sexual relationships, i just wanted to write some cute shit, kitchen makeouts occur, shared apartments, two dorks in love, uncertainties around intimacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 16:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16066640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parareve/pseuds/parareve
Summary: It embarrasses her, how much she has come to love theridiculousnessthat is him. She has grown accustomed to it all, adapted to the intimate domesticity he unknowingly provides—and it is those moments that she hungers for more than anything else, too shy to enact them herself.





	bee's wing

 

“ _Well_ ,” Tamaki breathes, giddily and a little bemused, as the bar door cracks open to cool misty air, “That was different.”

 _Different_ meaning a whole host of things: cramped and dark and _loud_ , spilling over with the sounds of clattering cocktails and belted vocals by a college band; for Haruhi, the experience had been…interesting, to say the least (and perhaps a tad too _American_ for her taste), but Tamaki had let that energy run through him like a supernova, vibrant and giggling and somewhat drunk, yet to lose the stain of pink on his skin.

If there was anything she had learned of him, it was that he was a whirlwind, constantly lost in emotion, positivity hanging bright from every inch of his being. Never before had she met someone with such talent to find small joys in everything—he dusts them clean like precious artifacts, handcrafted suns plucked from his sleeve and hung high for all to see, flickers of starlight and _Yes You Can_. That glitter shines in his eyes now, warm as the smile that creases crooked at one corner.

Haruhi feels her cheeks warm, smile soft and half-hidden as she tucks back her growing fringe behind one ear.

“Yeah.”

The little corner they step out to is sardined with twenty-somethings, all reeking of beer and hand-rolled cigarettes and griping about the unexpected downpour that spills out beyond the awning. It was their first night at an Irish bar, a dime a dozen of the weekend night-outs of choice, overflowing with framed photos and newspaper clippings and rainbows of sports banners and a frothy beer the color of onyx that had overflowed from nearly every glass in sight.

(It had tasted like bitter coffee and burnt grains and she had pushed it away without hesitation after they had settled on giving a pint a try, offering no apology to the bartender who berated her with disbeliefs; Tamaki, to her surprise—lover of sweet things and extravagant drinks as he was—had instantly fallen in love ( _It’s like Sumatra Mandheling!_ he’d gasped, as if she knew anything about overpriced exotic flavors), and she had watched him put down a second pint at an alarming pace.)

The live band surges behind them as the door swings open again, wheezing shut with another groan of frustration, and Tamaki shoulders his way further into the tiny alcove. Across his cheek prisms a rainbow of stained glass mosaics, foggy greens and golds painted down the lines of blond curls and rumpled collar and oversized sweater, and Haruhi finds herself breathless and still as he tilts his head, eyes caught on the honey-gold swath of a streetlamp that turns glittering rain into a downfall of snow. It’s not fair to her, seeing him like this, like she never used to: kaleidoscoped in the shadows, a tall sprout of faraway eyes and softened smile, and she feels her lungs squeeze tight as her heart does that _thing_ (gross, twisty, heat-shivering knots—she vows to keep her mouth shut before something unfiltered and lovestruck sneaks away from her).

She had never been a romantic, but the past year destroyed that piece of herself quicker than she ever feared; it didn’t help that Tamaki, self-proclaimed king of flattery as he was, had no problem flirting her into a pile of mush now that he _knew_ —the image of him bent-kneed and dripping, touch like wildfire where his fingers had laced at the small of her back, voice silken and low and smile far too sly curling at his mouth ( _Is it possible that I found your weakness?_ ) would forever be stained as the moment her pride nosedived into the abyss. (Finding he could sweet-talk _her_ —Haruhi, stoic denier of all things flowery and extravagant—into a stammering mess no different than his guests had inflated his ego into dangerous territory, and he had rarely missed the opportunity to render her red and speechless.)

“Um…maybe we should just get a taxi,” Haruhi says after a moment, fingers numb with starbursts as they fumble through her purse for her phone, “It doesn’t look like the rain will let up any time soon.”

“You’re right,” Tamaki echoes, “It doesn’t.” He chuckles then, eyes crinkling at the corners and dimples creasing soft on his cheeks, and anything Haruhi had stored to say next short-circuits as he leans close, chest pressing warm into her side. His cologne envelops her, minty and cool, like the dewdropped coastlines of Kyushu in first bloom, and it fills her with everything captured as a reminder of him: summer, cinnamon tea, layered cardigans, fresh sheets.

His voice is soft, and it burns far deeper than it should.

“ しかし、水は私たちを傷つけることはありません。”

 _But water won’t hurt us_.

The phrase catches her off guard, Japanese rolling off his tongue like velvet, warm and familiar, now reserved for private moments in this strange world of English accents and corporate jargon; Haruhi finds herself thrown head-first into a wave of nostalgia, memories of glittering ponds and soaked clothes and marble the color of faded roses cresting over her. They settle comfortably about the curves of her waist, a lover’s embrace, following the heat that glides up her spine as his fingers dance along the curve of her hip. It feels like home.

She can only smile when Tamaki opens his palm to her, eyes twinkling with mischief, and his intonation switches fluidly to English, “So? Should we run for it?”

Her grin turns impish as her fingers lace with his, soft, slow.

“Well…if you _insist_.”

Wordlessly, she says _You idiot_ and _Yes_ , and he doesn’t need to be told twice; his smile mirrors hers as it blooms wide on his face (it’s a beautiful thing, seeing his eyes twinkle like a dusk sky and his grin brighter than dawn), and with glittering _Pardon us_ ’s and _Excuse me_ ’s, they weave their way through the crowd into the downpour.

The rain pelts cold and sharp onto ink-black pavement; Haruhi _shrieks_ as it paints an icy line down the back of her neck, and Tamaki throws one arm up to shield his face, laughter clattering across the walls they pass as he turns his wrist to clench her hand firmer ( _run away with me, don’t let go_ )—and then they are soaring across the street, puddles splashing high on their calves, the air warped into a chaotic roar around them.

Haruhi can do nothing but squeeze desperate to the hand that guides her like a lifeline, squealing into a laugh as they sprint through a red crosswalk and splash across ankle-deep city streams, waltzing around blinding swarms of halted traffic, their footprints carved like paintings through the glitter of red and green.

She can’t catch her breath as they send their complex door rattling on its hinges and jog up three flights, but she’s _smiling_ , and Tamaki’s palm flattens hard against the painted steel of their apartment door as they clatter to a stop, all tangled limbs and raggled hair.

“We’re _soaked_!”

“Only a little bit—!”

“This was _your_ idea—”

Haruhi jingles her keys into the lock and swings the door open, the lukewarm heat of their apartment rushing fast into her chilled skin, and she swears short and sharp as they rattle into the tiny foyer. It is an instant beckoning of home, separate from the world of English-speaking and grammatical frenzy; the space is too cramped for wet clothes and tiptoed shuffling, but Tamaki’s hands are everywhere, cold and hot where they settle up her arms, her shoulders, ruffling with a teasing giggle into the wet spikes of her hair.

“My poor _Haruhi_ , my washed-out little _souris_ ,” he murmurs, sing-songed, Japanese and French mingling into a strange melody on his tongue; Haruhi swats her hands up and wriggles and shoves, sending him stumbling with petulant gasps towards the hallway.

“Shower,” she demands, pointing firmly towards their bathroom before those droopy eyes can even dare to cast her direction, “You’ll be quicker, go on—”

“And leave my Haruhi to _freeze_?!” Tamaki is nothing short of aghast, hands flailing into wild dramatics. “What am I, a selfish, good-for-nothing—”

 “Tamaki.”

“A—A _fiend_ , a true _criminal_ , forcing my princess, my lady to wait out here all alone—”

“ _Tamaki_.” The sigh turns murderous as limbs untangle and arms swat away wandering fingertips, and on cue, her boyfriend ( _boyfriend_ —the term never fails to sends her insides tingling, a strange and foreign concept still) is sent rippling into a shocked paralysis. Slowly, his feet submit while his mouth disobeys; he traces over the threshold to the corridor with a coy look turned across his shoulder, lips not quite at a smile, one brow perking up.

“Well, we could…always take one toge—”

Heat licks up Haruhi’s spine like a flame and lands bright in her face, and the torrent spills out before she can stop it, her eyes cutting away and her hands possessed into some outlandish orchestration of denial.

“N-No, _no_ , it’s—it’s too small, just—just _go first_ —I don’t even need to take one! It’s fine, don’t worry about it, it’s _fine_!” In a desperate attempt to salvage some piece of her dignity, she turns stiff-backed with cheeks burning to walk into their kitchenette, spitting out sourly, “I’ll make tea.”

Tamaki stands in stunned silence before a birdish chirp presses through a small flash of white.

“Alright,” he giggles (grins, _winks_ ), before padding his way into the bathroom.

The sharp creak of the door shutting (and not locking, never locked), leaves a void of unnatural _quiet_ , and Haruhi eyes up their stove like a mortal enemy as their little apartment creaks and shuffles with the sounds of their neighbors, vividly conscious of wet clothes slopping to the floor ( _he’ll forget about them until later_ ) and shower nozzle squeaking on ( _he always turns it too hot first_ ).

A slew of muffled curses confirms her suspicions as the nozzle creaks furiously away from the left, and in the midst of it Haruhi distantly becomes aware of the _pit-pat-patting_ of her dripping clothes on the tile.

It’s in a matter of seconds that she has retreated to her bedroom ( _sanctuary_ ) to make good use of an old towel and hastily throw on borrowed clothes, but still her heart _beat beat beats_ like a pounding drum, counting down the moments until her sanity breaks entirely. Her door shuts behind her too aggressively and her hair is still wet, but the chill in her skin is gone, and that enough dampens the rush of heat in her veins. (The jumper is too big and the jeans too long, but they are soft with the feeling of not-new and warm with the musk of already-worn, and she feels herself melting into the familiarity of them with every second that passes.)

“Tea” turns into microwave ramen and sliced shoyu tamago; she shards stalks of negi and chops neat squares out of convenience store nori, dumping them perhaps a little too messily into their broths, desperate for the diversion cooking often provides when she doesn’t have time to think.

( _She loves him, she loves him, she loves him._ )

Two cups of tea steam from a fancy little strainer they received as a moving-in gift last year (she had never understood the need for loose-leaf tea—regular bags were just _fine_ —but she was growing increasingly incapable of turning down any doting by Yuzuru), and she tops off one cup with a splash of cream and sugar just as the floorboards creak behind her.

“You made ramen?”

Tamaki’s voice trails high with awe, startling Haruhi so suddenly that she nearly lunges her spoon across the room (and at the abrupt snort that puffs out behind her, she reasons she could have been perfectly fine letting it sail straight into his eye).

“I…thought it’d be good for dinner,” she reasons, mouth pinched; she can feel Tamaki grin behind her, all sunbeams and sparkles and whatever other ridiculousness that trailed with it, and with slow grace he worms his arms between hers to curl around her waist, chin plopping gently atop her shoulder.

“It’s perfect,” he says, a whisper of warmth against the curve of her collarbone, hair damp and cool against her neck (and if the rasp of new-stubble against her shoulder as his jaw tilts sends tingles low down her spine, she does her _damnedest_ to ignore it). The closeness sends her heart thundering and turns her fingertips slippery, and she resolves then and there that she’d be just fine sending their walls up in smoke—

(She’ll kill him.)

—but it only lasts a moment; warm palms clap to her waist, his head jolting back, and he sounds absolutely _shattered_ by the time his whine dies off, “ _Oh_ , I should’ve helped you—what can I do? Anything else you want made? I can—I can make sweets! How about soba bolo, or—”

Even after all this time, his theatrics never fail to steal the stage. Haruhi can’t get too annoyed at them, any more—their charm is familiar ( _comfortable_ ) by now, and she makes the curtain call without fuss.

“I _wanted_ to make it for you,” she grinds out, quiet and steady and a little sheepish, and can feel heat coloring her cheeks even as those slender palms hover at her waist.

His dismay funnels into a soft _Oh_ , and then nothing else.

(He is all storm cells and poetics and attention spans the speed of hummingbird’s wings; it always crashes over her, sending her reeling with the effort to catch up and _cling_. As much as she may have denied it years ago, his energy was something she had always lacked, and still it calls to her like a beacon. Never before has she felt so overwhelmed in _newness_ —it intrigues her, a treasure map rewritten at every minute, and she is much too stubborn to turn away.)

“Well,” Tamaki breathes, close enough to scatter heat against her nape, “Is there…anything I can help you with?”

She is shivery and red and halfway through finishing a knee-jerked _N_ o with something along the lines of _Go sit down, your tea will get cold_ when a knuckle traces a slow line down the arch of her back, sending a jolt of heat deep into her spine, and all she can sense is warmth and cool musk and damp hair tickling her ear—

“Are you sure?”

(He’ll kill _her_.)

Haruhi does everything in her power to still the quiver in her bones, finding some semblance of sense with a tiny swallow.

(And maybe she wants him to.)

“Well…if you want something sweet, you could get those store-bought cookies you got last week,” she says, and quick as the drop of a hat does nothing more but bat her lashes and clatter their teacups onto saucers, “Those would go well with the tea.”

She cannot decide whether he is disappointed or impressed when his knuckle traces another little zig-zag, up-downed and gentle, along the dip in her spine, before his hands slip away from hip and back alike.

“Oh, they _would_ ,” he croons, as if it had been his idea from the very start, and wastes no time sprinting to their pantry to crinkle through their disorganized heap of packaged goods.

In the small moment of white noise that bubbles around her, Haruhi makes quick work of setting the table, a bright swath of personalized everythings save their bowls and spoons: bear-carved chopsticks on a porcelain cat and an ornate English tea set on one side, pink-dotted ones on a little glass seal with a much simpler cup of orange and yellow on the other. In the middle of it all, Tamaki brandishes his plate of cookies in a flourish, nestled like a hidden gem between their cluster of hodge-podged china, and he sits with a grand show of _Oh, this looks so good!_ and _Haruhi, you shouldn’t have!_ as he squeaks his chair up to the table.

“I tried to make it how you like it,” she says with a small smile, “But it’s just microwaved—”

“It’s _gudh_ ,” moans Tamaki, without any space for breath, already cradling his bowl close enough to slurp up a steady stream of noodles, and Haruhi can’t help but _laugh_. (He is instantly petulant with a slew of _What?!_ and _Haruhi is judging my eating!_ , which only makes her laugh more.)

She watches him, absent-minded, as she slurps up her own clusters of steaming ramen. As her mind usually does, it wanders—quiet as she takes in the familiar flick of long fingers, the messy curls about the damp ends of his hair, lamplight gleaming soft within their golden strands.

The hum of a notification draws his attention downward, and he is immediately absorbed, full-mouth somehow making room for a muffled chuckle (a text from Kyouya or the twins, no doubt, from the way his thumb flies rapid across his keyboard to type out a lengthy response); its budding silence gives way to pleasant diversion, and it is one Haruhi relishes in, quiet moments all treasured opportunities to let her busied mind process and reflect.

It still sends her reeling, the way he can flip so quickly. In one moment he could be reciting works of classical literature in their entireties, sending her bolting for pillow cushions to dampen out the cry of his theatrics towards romance; the next, he could be pouring hours over her favorite home-cooked meal, garnished with references only she would recognize. In one moment he could be prattling on about the highest thread count being the essential component to a perfect sleep, and not the span of a breath later be teasing her closer with clothes tantalizingly half-undone, purring some nonsense that the true key was just falling asleep beside her.

(It embarrasses her, how much she has come to love the _ridiculousness_ that is him. She has grown accustomed to it all, adapted to the intimate domesticity he unknowingly provides—and it is those moments that she hungers for more than anything else, too shy to enact them herself.)

He had always been the more passionate of the two, social formalities and careful precautions thrown to the wind as soon as any plan had made itself known to him, a spoiled prince with a heart three sizes too big; where once she may have scoffed at his antics, called him a fruitless beanstalk with his head far too high in the clouds, now she feels speechless beneath the weight of the world he carries with fingers so thin.

(She can’t help but stare at them now, the baggy roll of his sleeves puffing down into the elegant taper of his wrists, knuckles blushed against the curve of his chopsticks).

As much as he may have mortified her in years past, sent her fumbling into a prepubescent shell at his teasing antics and flirty grins, he does nothing more now but make her _weak_ —shy, exposed, utterly vulnerable to the tingle that stirs in her belly with every smile that creases those lips, constantly stuck on the fine hairs gleaming gold at the nape of his neck, the sharpened cut of his jaw.

(He is beautiful in more ways than she had ever imagined, and she is desperate with the fear of losing what they have, with the fear that she might not be enough to fulfill his wild heart.)

“Haruhi?”

The whisper startles her into a breathless tangle of wobbly fingers and choked swallowing, cheeks burning as she manages to get down a clump of ramen that very well could have been fatal, given her plummeting mental territory.

(The blush catches his attention with dangerous speed, and Haruhi makes hard efforts to keep her eyes fixed on her bowl, chopsticks rattling messily through its broth.)

“Yeah? What?” she says, perhaps a little too stiffly; that is clue number two, and Tamaki’s curiosity dissolves quick into suspicion, one blond brow arching high.

“You got quiet, little bear,” he hums, mouth twitching at a smile.

(The nickname stings, sending butterflies in her stomach and pulling the flush on her cheeks two shades darker; it had stuck as a reference to that stupid mechanical pencil he had latched onto from her, and rarely failed to make her heart twist with nostalgia for a time when their relationship had still been so new, just lingering on the fringes of nonexistence.)

“Just thinking, is all,” Haruhi plucks out, fiddling shyly with her chopsticks, and stubbornly sticks on something to have the last word, immediately bristling from the thought that he may _know_ , “What, you don’t think when it’s quiet?”

(She is always so quick to have her feathers ruffled, and he _loves_ it.)

Tamaki’s eyes twinkle with unhidden delight at the sight of striking a nerve, hand pressing to his cheek. He eyes her up thoughtfully, mouth twisting at a smirk.

“Well, sure, of course I do,” he muses, “You _always_ know what I’m thinking.” His grin turns wolfish and instantly too coy, and Haruhi shivers with the way his voice descends, at once predator on the prowl. “You weren’t thinking something _naughty_ , were you? Oh, my sweet, pure Haruhi, do _tell_.”

“I wasn’t!” she squeaks, cheeks flaming. “Why do you always have to assume _I’m_ the pervert, we both know _you’re_ the perverted one—”

“Spoken like a true pervert!” Tamaki crows, grin flashing wide. “Are you too shy about your fantasies? Is there a secret Ramen Man hidden away in your mind that whispers to you the best recipes? Does he wear those historical uniforms you like? _Oh_ , don’t tell me—a samurai-turned-chef with the battle scars still there to prove his tragic legacy—”

“You’re _insane_ ,” groans Haruhi, with palms clapping quick to her face. “What even are you _on_ about, that’s not my type—”

“Aha! So you _do_ have a type,” Tamaki gasps, “Mystery-maiden is no longer—”

“It was never a _mystery_ —you of all people should know, it’s…it’s…”

She flounders, speechless, abruptly red-faced again, and clinks her chopsticks sourly against her bowl to search for a stray circlet of green onion.

“I don’t have a type, I like _you_ ,” she finishes at last, the banter relinquished in the face of her flustered defeat. “You know that.”

Twilight eyes gleam in the space of sudden silence, a flush of sheepish joy at the unprompted declaration licking quick up the stillness of his spine to land bright in his cheeks, and Tamaki looks down before grinning soft to himself, goofy and _warm_ and enough to make Haruhi’s stomach do somersaults at the glimpse of it.

(To get those kinds of reactions from him is something she _craves_ , so often left a helpless victim to his charm that the desire to have the upper-hand has long manifested as a beast within her, aimlessly searching for opportunities to let her wit leave him spinning on his feet.)

“Well, if I’d known that sooner, I’d have given you _ample_ opportunity to prove me otherwise,” he teases, a little less mischievous and a little more dorky (because it was always just _teasing_ , and she _knew_ that—but something consumes her, drives her heart into her throat as she stares at the way long lashes gleam gold where they flick to catch her eyes once more, teeth biting playfully on the swell of his lower lip, and that beast inside her _snaps_.)

“If you weren’t wearing that damn sweater, maybe I’d prove it to you right now,” she says, as casually as pronouncing the weather.

Her fingers snatch her tea to give herself distraction from the thunderous pounding of her heart ( _what are you doing!!!_ she wants to scream at herself, cheeks already stinging with a telltale flush of embarrassment), but it’s the sharp absence of a playful quip that draws her attention sideways again, spine freezing and eyes blowing wide.

Tamaki sits with chopsticks half-dropped and lips parted, cheeks stained darker than the linens beneath their bowls, every frame of his body voiceless with startled shock where his eyes are fixed upon her—but it is his eyes, his _eyes_ , midnight-embodied and gleaming with unvoiced hunger that shocks her clean to her core, the line of his throat bobbing hard into a painful swallow.

He mirrors her helplessly, fingers clumsy where they send his teacup rattling harsh from its saucer to draw it to suddenly too-dry lips, and his words croak out small and breathless when he forces a gulp of scalding tea down his throat, staring down at his plate.

“T-That’s, uh,” he starts, dragging in a short breath, “That’s—well—t-that’s…good to know.”

It sends her head spinning, how much his words drip with _want_ —how quickly a simple suggestion could leave him with voice strained and composure torn—and instantly the air feels too hot, brimming with an electric haze she had always been so terrified of pursuing. Now she drinks it in like a performer crafting stage fright into adrenaline, breathless with the sudden opportunity to shed all fears and _dive_.

(It is terrifying and _exhilarating_ all at once, knowing she could just keep pushing his buttons to see what reactions she could draw from him—and he would probably do nothing but kindly ask her to begin.)

Tamaki teeters with his chopsticks and struggles to remember which fingers to set them on, brain thoroughly short-circuited and blood properly boiling, and the sight alone makes Haruhi’s skin quiver, her mouth dry and her knees weak as she fiddles quietly with the handle of her cup.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were asking me to,” she says, mouth twitching at a small smile (on one hand it makes her want to curse everything, the fact that such sayings steal directly from the flirting so often the root of her own speechless flounderings; but it sends a devious thrill down her spine to see how little Tamaki can actually _take_ , able to flood her with his own merciliess teasings as if the world’s existence depended on it, but hardly able to receive his own dues); he splutters out some strangled noise halfway between a startled breath and a swallowed groan, teacup slamming dangerously hard back into its dish and flush painting deeper beneath the line of his collar.

“W- _Well_ , look at the time,” Tamaki gasps out. His knees bang hard on the underside of the table as he stands up too quickly, sending their china rattling angrily in protest, “It’s kind of late, isn’t it? M-Maybe we shouldn’t have dessert, we’ll stay up too late and be exhausted for class—”

“Isn’t tomorrow Sunday?” Haruhi cuts in, with smile slowly widening in bemusement. She slides both hands to rest beneath her chin, a vague copying of his earlier gesture, heart still pounding earnestly between her ears.

“ _Church_ ,” Tamaki substitutes, blindly grappling for straws between his fruitless efforts to clean up his plates.

“We don’t go to church,” Haruhi counters again, grin turning impish.

“Weekend cartoons, then,” he babbles, retreating to rifle frantic through their silverware drawer for their chopstick containers. “Did we use up all the cookies? We’ll need a plastic box—”

“ _Senpai_ ,” hums Haruhi, turning back in her chair to rest her arms across the flat swath of its spine. With every shred of her being, she clings still to the courage blessing her with the ability to prod on, “You’re seeming awfully shy.” She hides her face in the crook of her elbow, unable to contain a delighted grin at seeing him so _helpless_. “Can dish it out, but can’t take it, huh?”

Tamaki balks, mouth falling open, and at once turns bearish, griping pettily through pursed lips, “Wh—I am _not_. I’m…capable of—of handling…things.”

“ _Sure_.”

“I am!” he whines, stalking childishly back to the table with hands bracing firm about his hips. “I’m perfectly capable!”

Haruhi muffles a breathless chortle into her sleeve, cheeks red with laughter as she sends one hand high to wave away his pouting efforts.

“I _am_ ,” Tamaki insists still, even as she clambers to the table to pull herself up, laughing all the while.

“Uh- _huh_ ,” huffs Haruhi, catching her breath just long enough to find her footing, and with heart hammering she tucks her fringe neatly behind one ear.

The lapse of their banter gives her a false since of victory—for she has _won_ , a triumph rarely given (and perhaps one too foolishly assumed) that sends a guilty flush of pride deep within her—and she is half-way through reaching for her finished bowl with smirk confidently bared when Tamaki’s hand braces smoothly against the table, blonde hair tickling her temple where his head tilts down to snatch her gaze.

(She knows when she looks into those eyes she will be gone from all control, pulse leaping into a frantic thunder and lungs shuddery as she glances up slowly, dark lashes fanning fast—for his eyes are _wild_ , and cunning, and not a trace of a smile lingers in the open bow of his mouth.)

“Do you think I can’t…?” he says slowly—and though the tingle of heat in his cheeks still lingers, enough testimony to the bashful flush brimming yet beneath his chest, those words _burn_ , casting match to flame within Haruhi’s crackling heart.

She blinks quick up at him, already feeling her own skin prickle with the tell-tales of red creeping over her, swallowing heavily as he moves to rest his other hand beside her.

There are no words that can be spoken then, only the sweltering match of their eyes—honeyed brown and twilight blue, flickering with stovetop-sparks and firey starlight—and Haruhi’s heart is in her throat and her lungs beneath the sea when he presses closer, nose brushing against her own to give way to a scattering of warm breath and a bump of lips.

Some princely phrase, witty and _stupid_ , is waiting just beyond the outskirts of his teeth—she can feel it with the intake of his breath, the slight twitch of his mouth at one corner—and it drives her skin aflame with the need to just _shut him up_.

(So she drives her fingers upward and _pulls_ , tangled easily within blonde hair and mouth open when his lips clash messily to her own, relishing in the way he jolts stiffly in surprise.)

She is so often a willing participant, and rarely the instigator—a fact that now has him drowning, dizzy with the desire to have her lay claim to him, to give give _give_ and leave him scrambling with the need to _take_.

(It is that desire alone that sends his palm gliding from tableside to waist, that sends his breath scattering beyond her lips before he dives back in, and Haruhi _melts_ beneath his touch as he presses closer and closer still, table scuffing against the rasp of her jeans as she shimmies upon it.)

So often, she was left starry-eyed and insatiable in the wake of such moments—many only mounting to soft touch sneaked away from prying eyes, or swarms of gentle kisses tucked beyond the threshold of their apartment—for it was always him filling her with passion until she was overflowing with it, dream-laden with its effect for days after. Where her heat was fire and spite, his was love, displayed hungry and zealous through desperate confessions and wandering touch, taken greedily at every chance—and it _consumed_ her, left her breathless with the ache to never have it end, so easily lost within her composure when the moment was over.

But _now_ —now that heat burns within her, buzzing through her veins like a livewire, her touch firm where it scatters to the back of his neck to drag him closer. He puffs a moan into the warm press of her mouth, the hair at his nape glinting messily where it tangles between her fingers; his palm glides hot down to the line of her thigh, following its curve to the band of her jeans ( _his_ jeans), nimble fingers wandering easily beneath the knitted swoop of her jumper ( _his_ jumper). It is the stroke of his touch over the bared small of her back that sends a lightning shock through her, her thighs jolting high to clamp earnestly around his hips—and by then her heart is thundering and her lungs are gone, panting breathless against the wet brush of his open mouth.

Her name rasps into the space between them from lips just a breadth short of kissing her again, gravelly with a tone that is so often _warning_ —for she is so quick to startle at its implications, snapping back into her shell with smile dazed and cheeks stained crimson—and it is a shift he has come to expect from her without judgment, always willing to give her time to back away.

(The familiar clench of anxiety strings tight within her, as it usually does—and with something akin to bitterness, she wonders when the day will come that it _won’t_ consume her, longing desperately for a time where she may laugh in the face of it and let her wants be known, brazenness be damned.

Yet still the spark of her confidence lingers: a tiny flame on the backburner of her clouded mind, its presence a whisper of encouragement through every beat of her drumming heart—for why should she feel so shy?)

The fingers at his neck do not loosen, and the palm that cradles the dip in her back does not slide away; the eyes that fix upon her then tingle curiously, cheeks pinked and blonde brows perking, and that alone is perhaps the reason she shoves the jitters in her stomach beneath the rug and tells herself _to hell with it_.

She licks her lips, casting her eyes quick down the broad line of his shoulders and the messy tangle of his collar before sending her hands quick to find the hem of his sweater, making her intentions _very_ known.

(Tamaki swallows down something like a keen, hands helpless to her ventures as she makes easy work of shucking his sweater to the floorboards.)

His pulse is pounding where her fingers relish in the warmth of his t-shirt, and it is that moment that she drinks in, breathless where his thumb scatters across the curve of his cheek to draw her closer—for this was what had always mattered, his wealth and her normality cast aside; beneath the status of his family, the expectations for his future, he was blood and bone and _real_ , and he had always gravitated towards her, nameless as she was.

It is a sloppy thing when his free hand scrambles to cradle her, and her arms follow its initiative, clasping tight about his shoulders when she feels herself sliding; his lips are warm, and honeyed, and light against her own, traces of sugar she can do nothing but grow addicted to as he moves away, with quite a clear lack of grace, feet stumbling and mouths bumping into messy grins.

The couch presents itself like a mountainous obstacle, lingering half-seen in her peripheral, and through his blind search for grounding she guides him there, knowing as soon as his foot makes contact with its corner that it will be _disastrous_ (yet still she is grinning, even as his touch fails her and she tumbles weightless from his hold to flop hard against the cushions, its legs squeaking in protest as he follows her soon after, with all the elegance of an infant deer flailing in its first steps).

He plummets, with only a small shriek, and Haruhi can do nothing but dissolve into laughter once more as her palms fly to shield her face.

(It is all _ridiculous_.

Yet, she loves it still.)

Tamaki huffs, childish and stubborn; groans something short into the cushions, sharp with a curse and lingering with dismay at his failed debonair. His hair is a turbulent mess and his cheeks are red when he pulls himself to his knees, and Haruhi peeks down between her fingers with a small giggle, lips pressing into an earnest smile.

“I was trying to be _sexy_ ,” Tamaki grubbles, “And this _couch_ —Ranka and this stupid couch from that stupid discount sale—”

“It’s a nice couch,” counters Haruhi. She twists to lay on her back, folding her hands neatly across her stomach and grinning softly as Tamaki flounders into further grumpiness.

“Oh, it’s a very nice couch! Very nice, definitively, and big and _clunky_ and right in the _way_ —”

Haruhi giggles again as he sinks into his palms over her, hair falling into a disheveled curtain about his face. She reaches up to curl one strand gently around her finger, calming his tirade into a grumbling puff, and smiles.

“I think it’s right where it needs to be.”

It is a simple thing, how she says it, tying unspoken thoughts swift into a warm hum of reassurance. (They’re okay, they’re okay—they always will be.) Tamaki stares at her like a child would stare at their first love—soft, and wistful, and longing all at once—and it sends her heart melting, lost within the way he tilts his head, his smile growing light and forlorn.

The silence crumbles, swift and soft as the tide leaving to sea.

“I want to be everything for you,” he murmurs. His hair tickles her temple where he slides down to his elbows, thumbs running gentle against her shoulders.

“I want to be everything for you, too,” Haruhi says, light as a whisper.

Tamaki huffs out a laugh, his cheeks pinking.

“You already _are_ ,” he says, throwing years of her own quiet self doubt fast into the shadows in an instant. She reaches up as if to brush back his hair, smile pinching playfully at one corner. Her fingers tangle it into a further nest instead.

“ _Augh_ —”

“You already are, too,” she says quietly. Her smile grows.

Tamaki blinks at her, cheeks red and pulse drumming soft, and can do nothing for a moment but simply bask in the beauty that is _her_. (She is brash and bullish and _wild_ , and yet it is in the quiet moments that her heart shines the most, vulnerable and warm and far too open. It is so much, and never enough, and always just what he needs.)

“I love you,” whispers Tamaki, as simple as that. It is all that needs to be said.

(Her arms call him closer, providing a gentle home within their warmth where he nestles alongside her, all wandering palms and tangling legs and clothes half-undone.

Cuddling will do just fine, for tonight.)

“I love you, too,” she says, and with a smile, tacks on, “Even though you _are_ big idiot.”

“This _couch_ is a big idiot,” Tamaki grumbles, sending her head thrown back with an exasperated laugh.

(They settle on a movie not long after that, jeans tossed aside and blanket drawn close, relishing in their playful critiques of odd American tropes; it’s a mystery film, an old one, just enough of a backdrop for animated arguments and the gentle graze of his fingertips across her knee and the soft tilt of her smile at one side.

He is warm behind her, and in his arms, she feels whole, and free.)

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write a post-series Boston fic since forever and finally found the inspiration for it in [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QuR7mPDAkEk). I spent two months in Ireland last summer and absolutely fell in love with the culture there, as well as with this busker group, and a lot of the themes in here pull from that experience (the opening is a direct reference to Irish pubs (and Guinness, love of my _life_ ), which I feel is a fair representation of Boston, as well.)
> 
> The title can be seen as a reference to either of them. When I initially wrote this, I saw it more as Haruhi's perception of Tamaki. In the end, it can be read as his perception of her.
> 
> I'm so happy to have finally finished this, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!


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